


First Kiss

by ChancreDoll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Underage, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancreDoll/pseuds/ChancreDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stolen bottle of vodka leads to Sherlock’s first kiss - from his brother, Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> There are no explicit ages given here, but I will warn for a possible implied underage character because this is a story about Sherlock’s first kiss. So if you think he would would be under the age of legal consent at the time of his first kiss, you should note the warning.

**First Kiss**  
by Chancredoll

 

Sherlock tried to pay attention, to make note of what was happening, to react. But all he could do was feel. Feel the slick press of Mycroft’s lips. Feel the tickling tip of Mycroft’s tongue. Feel the press of the alcohol, weighing down on the surface of his brain, shuttering his rational thoughts behind a spinning wall of feeling. 

Sherlock dug his fingers into the fabric of the sofa. He wanted to touch Mycroft, to feel more than just his mouth. But Sherlock had no idea how to do what he was doing, and no idea why he was doing it. Particularly with Mycroft. He only knew it was something he’d wanted to do for a very long time. 

Mycroft pulled back and the moisture on Sherlock’s lips cooled instantly. He hadn’t realized he’d been closing his eyes until they fluttered open to reveal Mycroft’s slowly growing grin. 

“You’re a liar,” Mycroft said, with a look of familiar superiority. 

His face was still close enough Sherlock had to shift his gaze up and down to take in both Mycroft’s eyes and the shine of his saliva-slicked lips. He was too fixated to blink.

Mycroft sat back, taking the warmth of his body with him. “You’ve never kissed anyone before.” 

He reached for the bottle and poured another shot, then downed it quickly with a shudder. Sherlock merely stared at him with a slack mouth. Despite the heat from his first kiss and his own hastily consumed shots of vodka, Sherlock’s cheeks flushed further. He couldn’t protest any more than he could manage to properly return Mycroft’s kiss. But even with his sense at 90 proof, Sherlock’s instinct was to learn. He sat up, grasping the front of Mycroft’s shirt between trembling fingers. 

“Then teach me,” he breathed before pushing his mouth onto Mycroft’s. 

Sherlock felt Mycroft’s mouth smooth into a smile under the press of his neophyte kiss. Suddenly, Mycroft’s hand was behind Sherlock’s head, fingers twining through Sherlock’s fine curls. He pulled Sherlock’s head back and dislodged Sherlock’s lips.

“Are you certain?” he asked. His proximity and his firm grip on Sherlock’s hair intimated he didn’t expect a negative answer.

Sherlock nodded, his fingers still clutching Mycroft’s shirt, working intently over the smooth cotton.

Mycroft pulled his mouth up into a quick smile before pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes. Sherlock instantly felt like prey. The tight pressure building in his groin increased when Mycroft bent and pulled him close. As Mycroft’s mouth fell on him, Sherlock’s mind reeled back into a state of near-stupidity. Try as he might, he was unable to process the incoming deluge of data he was receiving. He had only instinct. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to Mycroft, letting him probe with his tongue. Timidly, Sherlock answered with his own tentative touches. When Mycroft softly grunted his favor, Sherlock felt electricity shoot down his spine towards his cock. He laved back more earnestly, seeking more of Mycroft’s approval. 

Mycroft pulled back from the deep kiss, panting. “You’ve always been a quick learner, little brother,” he said. His normally blue eyes were dark with a passion unfamiliar to Sherlock. He put his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, leaned forward, and laid Sherlock back on the sofa and himself atop him. 

Sherlock stiffly let himself be guided back, awkwardly wrapping his thin arms around Mycroft. Two pairs of long legs sprawled this way and that, half on and half off the sofa. Mycroft propped himself on his forearms above Sherlock, but Sherlock was acutely aware that Mycroft’s hip and thigh were pressed on his groin. He was also very afraid Mycroft couldn’t help but notice his growing erection. Sherlock held his body tightly, both with fear and anticipation, as Mycroft hovered over him. 

“Relax,” Mycroft instructed. “This is just a lesson. It’s not the real thing.” He adjusted his position, pushing against Sherlock’s thickening cock with his hip. “Or do you want to quit?”

“No,” Sherlock automatically answered as he did to any of Mycroft’s challenges, just as he’d done when Mycroft walked in with the stolen bottle of vodka. He raised his head and pressed his mouth to Mycroft’s, probing Mycroft’s lips until Mycroft opened his mouth and allowed him entry. 

Mycroft lowered himself and let Sherlock lie back on the sofa. Their chests pressed together, Mycroft’s weight stealing some of the precious breath Sherlock needed as a result of their deep kissing. Sherlock had to turn his head to free himself to breathe. He panted, bracing himself for a rebuke. 

But instead of a scolding, Mycroft pressed his lips to Sherlock’s cheek, leaving small, wet kisses along his jaw. Sherlock gasped and trembled. 

“Relax,” Mycroft whispered into the skin of Sherlock’s neck. He kissed along Sherlock’s throat, with gentle pressure and tiny licks. “Relax,” he murmured again.

Sherlock curled his fists into Mycroft’s shirt and took short, gasping breaths. His hard cock strained against the confines of his trousers and the weight of Mycroft’s thigh pressed between his legs. When Mycroft tenderly suckled at the hollow of his throat, Sherlock whimpered in a pleasure so acute, he thought it must be pain. 

Mycroft responded by returning to Sherlock’s mouth. But instead of the deep kiss he’d bestowed earlier, Mycroft worked slowly and lightly over Sherlock’s lips, delicately teasing Sherlock with quick flicks of his tongue. 

Mycroft’s gentle ministrations were even more erotic to Sherlock than his passionate kisses. He chased Mycroft’s lips with his own, trying to respond in kind, fumbling. He kneaded his fingers, alternately pulling at Mycroft’s shirt and spreading his fingers along Mycroft’s back. He wasn’t even aware when he began pushing his hips upward in an effort to relieve the pressure in his aching erection. 

Mycroft appeared to notice, however, and he groped his hand down between them and quickly found Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock squirmed and moaned. Mycroft took the opportunity to capture Sherlock’s mouth mid-cry. He tongued Sherlock and pressed his hand down into Sherlock’s groin. He deepened the kiss as he began to stroke Sherlock’s erection through the layers of fabric. 

Sherlock teetered on the edges of both orgasm and fainting. Mycroft finally let him breathe and Sherlock pulled his breath in with short, tight gasps. Mycroft increased the speed of his stroke, and Sherlock arched his hips up, feeling the fabric of his shorts sticking and sliding over his dick as Mycroft brought him off. He watched Mycroft for only few moments before he squeezed his eyes tightly. The sight of Mycroft’s swollen lips and concerned eyes was too much for Sherlock. He came with a gurgling moan, his hot spunk wetting his leg and trousers. 

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, Mycroft’s face was still only inches from his. But Mycroft’s expression had changed. Sherlock was confused, but he could feel Mycroft’s own hard cock against his leg. He shifted a shaking hand down Mycroft’s side and began to work his fingers between their pressed bodies. 

“I - do, do you want me to - ?” he asked, unsure of what he really needed to ask, let alone what Mycroft wanted him to do. But before he managed to touch Mycroft’s groin, Mycroft rolled away and stood up, putting his back to Sherlock.

“I’m going out,” he said, tucking the loose tails of his shirt into his trousers. 

Sherlock desperately tried to bring order to the situation within his brain, but he was unable to comprehend what was currently happening any more than he understood what had just happened. His mind, and consequently, his entire existence, was topsy-turvy. He sat up, pulling his legs onto the sofa in an attempt to hide the wet spot on his trousers. 

“I’ll do it for you,” he offered. Even as he said it, Sherlock felt as though someone else was inside his body, moving for him, speaking for him, thinking for him. He was out of control. Helpless to stop the words dribbling from his mouth. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Mycroft turned. “I took your wallet,” he said imperiously. He waved the leather wallet at Sherlock. “Which means I now have your month’s allowance. I hope this teaches you a valuable lesson. Sex is a distraction. And distraction is costly.”

Sherlock’s stomach turned. His cheeks burned with the realization he’d been an idiot, his skin crawled from the clammy remains of ejaculate soaking his trousers, and his heart was pierced by the sting of Mycroft’s deception. He kept his eyes dry only by glaring at his brother, nostrils flaring. 

“I hope you’ve learned something more important than how to kiss,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock ground his jaw and his lips quivered. Before his mouth once again opened to spew something he regretted, Sherlock’s mind finally rolled back onto its tracks and began turning once more. He realized Mycroft was still sporting a respectable lump in his trousers, and his throat and cheeks were flushed. 

“I learned you like being distracted, no matter what you say,” he spat. “And you don’t care who it costs.”

Mycroft’s eye twitched. He stuffed Sherlock’s wallet into his pocket. “Well. That’s my problem, then, not yours,” he said. He turned and left the library, slamming the door. 

Sherlock watched numbly. He pulled his knees to his chin, wondering how a pilfered bottle of vodka had ended with him in such a humiliating predicament. He didn’t even take the time to process the data before determining Mycroft was right. Sex _was_ obviously a distraction. A weakness. After all, it had practically destroyed all his cognitive functions in a short matter of time, and he hadn’t even taken his clothes off. It was definitely to be avoided at all cost. He’d never do it again.

Unless Mycroft asked nicely.


End file.
